


Punchlines

by meltokio



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, Introspection, POV First Person, handers implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 21:48:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10862754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meltokio/pseuds/meltokio
Summary: It's funny how often tragedy masquerades itself as comedy.





	Punchlines

My name is Hawke. I have a first name but everyone only ever calls me the last. I’m used to being Hawke. _Hawke, do this. Hawke did that. Hawke, help me. Hawke_. A title more than anything. Not a person. A business. An image.

I’m average height, average weight (I fluctuate regularly. I went from comfortable to refugee to destitute to wealthy to refugee and finally came full circle back to comfortable.) Once in a while someone will say I’m pretty in varying forms from the polite to the lascivious. I can’t say I agree or disagree. How adept are we at judging our own looks? We may see a toad in the mirror and someone else sees a prince. Or the other way around.

What I can judge, with accuracy, is that people think I’m funny. Most of the time. One third of the time, I’m inappropriate. I’m out of line. Bethany calls me a wretch. I don’t know when this started. When I started joking when I should have been crying. Maybe when Father died. Maybe something didn’t connect right and I don’t mourn like other people.

I think I saw too much crying and said to myself, _“Well, that’s enough of that. No need to add to the tears or we’ll all drown. Try to make everyone smile or we’ll be knee-deep in salty water.”_ That seems likely. Because when Father died, Mother retreated. No great show of courage in the face of hardship. She just closed up shop. I had to braid Bethany’s hair and tend to Carver’s scrapes. I wiped their tears and hugged them and made silly noises until they stopped blubbering. I’m not saying it was the best thing. I’m not saying I’m some hero. But it worked. And in a few months when Mother decided to return to the world of the living, everything was as she left it.

That stayed with me. I knew Carver’s death would break us. It almost did. Mother managed better this time, though. Not before she placed the blame fully on my shoulders, as if I’d killed him myself. I stopped laughing for a while then. When someone whose bruises you kissed and whose nose you wiped is cut down in front of you, things stop being so funny.

Soon enough, though, I charmed my way into the Deep Roads, smirked my way to the nobility, and managed to save a city while I was at it. I was on top of the bloody world. A hero. A real one that they write books about. Nothing and no one could tear me down from my pedestal. I could think of no reason not to laugh.

Went on that way for a few years. Then the Chantry happened. And the rebellion happened. And the city I saved reached down into my throat and ripped the laugh from my chest. I didn’t laugh. I didn’t cry, either. I was angry. I can’t recall a time I felt more betrayed. I’ve never felt so alone.

Then I left. Put everything to my back and took a deep breath. Knocked the dust off my sleeves and walked. Alone. People still call me Champion. I act very pleased. Very gracious to my ‘leagues of admirers.’ _“Autographs, anyone?”_ But every time I hear it is another dagger in the back. Another reminder that the image is a joke. And not a funny one either.

You’re terrible for asking this, you know. Sore subject. Too soon. All that rubbish. Really, I’ve been dying to talk about this mess with someone other than myself. Write about it. Whatever.

So, I really should have guessed this from the start. I should have seen it. Every single clue was lined up for me neat as you please and I walked right past them, tripping over my own two feet. Maybe because looking at Anders is like looking at the sun. All you see is light. It’s harsh and it’s blinding and it jealously imprints itself on everything you see afterward. Wall–Anders. Sofa–Anders. Floor–Anders. Ceiling–Anders. Does that make sense?

The reason I’m saying this is because after loafing around with Gamlen and the rest of the Lowtown lot, I stumbled across this sun of a man living in a dirty hovel with a purpose. He glowed. Literally glowed. I’m not being poetic at all.

 _Justice_. That’s why he glowed. I’m sneering now as I write this down because I think without Justice, none of this would have happened. Justice is a dirty word to me now. Some silly ideal that got people killed. A spirit living like a parasite on its host. I never knew Anders before Justice, but I’m told he was different. Anders with Justice was…intense. There would be breaks between where something funny or sarcastic would slip out and it was like a cloud passing over. A hint at what he was before. I liked that Anders a lot. Maybe more than I should have. Could have attributed to that temporary blindness I mentioned before. Sounds like me, right? Can’t say no to a broken man.

And now what? He’s on the run. I’ve no bloody idea where he is. Somewhere alone, most like. Hopefully safe. Maybe happy. Highly unlikely, but I still hope. It’s the least I can do.

I am an accomplice to his crimes. I let him do it. I helped him gather the materials and when he wouldn’t tell me why I didn’t argue enough. I let him go when hell broke loose. I didn’t ask for vengeance. Pissed off a prince in the meantime, but I didn’t care.

I got sun-blind.


End file.
